Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

‘‘What can we do for you, my son?’’ Remorse asked.

The collar had changed the Ranger’s attitude. Now he smiled under his sweeping mustache as he said, ‘‘Not much work for you in this town, Reverend. The outlaws skedaddled out of here so fast they cut holes in the wind.’’

‘‘So we heard from the gentleman who owns the livery stable,’’ Remorse said.

‘‘Course, the girls are left,’’ the Ranger said. ‘‘Plenty of preaching to be done there.’’

‘‘Indeed,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘I believe my words will soon be falling on fertile ground.’’

‘‘Amen, brother.’’ The Ranger’s eyes moved and held on McBride, but he spoke to Remorse. ‘‘This man your assistant?’’

‘‘Yes, he is, and a more pious and gentle soul you’ll never meet.’’

‘‘Is that right?’’ the Ranger said. ‘‘He sure don’t look it.’’ He took a step back from the table as the waitress brought the food. ‘‘Just be careful while you’re here, Reverend,’’ he said. ‘‘There might be a few bad ones still skulking around who would seek to do harm to a man of the cloth.’’

‘‘The Lord shall be my sword and shield,’’ Remorse said.

‘‘Yeah, well, maybe you should have your assistant there carry a club. Remember, outlaws prey on the innocent and defenseless like your good self.’’

‘‘Thank you for your kind consideration,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘And from now on I’ll make sure my assistant carries a stout stick with him at all times.’’

McBride was amazed that through it all Remorse had kept a straight face.

The rain settled into a dank, depressing drizzle, and a numbed silence settled over the town of Rest and Be Thankful. McBride and Remorse shared rocking chairs under the front porch of the Jas. Wilkie & Sons General Store, watching the empty street.

Down at the Sideboard Saloon a forlorn red-haired girl in a blue dress stood just outside the batwing doors. She stepped onto the boardwalk, glanced up at the gray sky and went back inside. The wind gusted, creaking the painted sign above McBride’s head, then lost interest and died away to nothing. Black shadows stretched everywhere, staining the backdrop of a gloomy day and a gloomier town.

‘‘Your cat didn’t come out to see you at the stable,’’ Remorse said. He sounded bored.

‘‘I guess he figures he’s got more important things to do.’’

‘‘Oh, like what?’’

‘‘Catch rats. Whipple says he’s the greatest rat-catching cat of all time.’’

‘‘He’s pissant size. He’s too small to catch a rat.’’

‘‘He’s game, though, and that makes up for his size. At least that’s what Whipple says.’’

‘‘Really?’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Isn’t that interesting?’’ His tone of voice told McBride that the man didn’t find the cat’s derring-do interesting in the least. He was trying to make small talk. The serious words would come later. When it got dark.

Remorse looked around him as he built a cigarette. ‘‘The town is dying around us. I can feel it.’’

‘‘What will happen to it, you think?’’ McBride asked.

‘‘Six months from now it will be a ghost town and only ghost people will remain here. Six years from now the buildings will start to fall down. Eventually all that will remain will be a few grassy mounds and some rusted scraps of iron. People will ride by and never know a town once stood here.’’

‘‘Sad, when you think about it,’’ McBride said.

Remorse lit his cigarette. ‘‘Some towns deserve to die. This was one of them.’’

With agonizing slowness, the long day shaded into evening. Bartenders with slicked-down hair and brocaded vests lit lamps outside the saloons. They knew nobody would come, but the routine of years died hard. The lamps cast pools of light on empty boardwalks that seemed to silently echo the thud of booted feet. The rain sought out all the quiet places where it hissed with a sound of dragons, and somewhere a clock chimed five, announcing a time that no one heard.

Remorse rose to his feet and stepped into the nearest saloon, his empty chair still rocking behind him. He returned a couple of minutes later with a glass in each hand. He gave one to McBride. ‘‘Brandy,’’ he said. ‘‘It will help.’’

‘‘My nerves?’’ McBride asked, smiling, hoping to convince Remorse that there was no fear in him.

The reverend took his seat again. ‘‘It will just help.’’ He laid his glass on the boardwalk beside him and began to build a cigarette. ‘‘Harlan’s draw will be quick, real sudden,’’ he said, not looking at McBride, concentrating on tobacco and paper. ‘‘If he tries too hard, his first shot will not be real accurate. If you can take the hit and keep standing, maybe you can outshoot him.’’

‘‘Maybe I can?’’

‘‘He’s good, John, real good.’’ Now Remorse turned his head. ‘‘I should be there.’’

‘‘It’s Harlan and me, Saul. That’s how it’s going to happen.’’ McBride tried his drink. ‘‘It’s good,’’ he said.

Remorse nodded. ‘‘Hennessey. When outlaws are in the money they can afford the best.’’ He lit his cigarette. ‘‘Check your gun now, John, and load the sixth chamber. You’ll need all the bullets you can get.’’ He waved a hand, the cigarette in his fingers curling blue smoke. ‘‘Now, I can probably get you a shotgun from Harlan’s office. Shove that in his belly and the fight will go out of him.’’

McBride had checked his Colt and slid a round into the empty chamber. ‘‘I want Thad Harlan to make his fight,’’ he said, shoving the revolver back in his waistband. ‘‘I aim to kill him tonight and rid the earth of his shadow.’’

Remorse flicked his cigarette butt into the muddy street. ‘‘It’s time, John,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s there, standing among the trees where the dead men hung. He’s waiting for you.’’

McBride no longer asked the reverend how he knew such things. All he could do was accept the man’s word for it and act accordingly. He drained his glass and rose to his feet. ‘‘Saul,’’ he said, ‘‘if I don’t come back, get in touch with Inspector Byrnes. He knows how to contact my young Chinese wards.’’

Remorse looked up at McBride. White hair drifted across his face like falling snow. ‘‘I’ll take care of it, John.’’

A silence stretched between them; then McBride touched his hat and said, ‘‘I’ll be seeing you, Reverend.’’

The man nodded, his eyes on the street as McBride walked away. ‘‘Take the hits, shoot straight.’’

Without looking back McBride waved, and out in the darkness the coyotes were howling a requiem for a dead thing.

Chapter 34

The thunderstorm had come from the southwest, born among the volcanic pinnacles of the White Mountains, sired by cool rain and tremendous up-drafts of hot desert air. Massive parapets of cloud that shaded quickly from gray to black rolled off the peaks and followed the old wagon road to Fort Stanton. The storm then prowled restlessly to the north . . . and vented its rage on the town of Rest and Be Thankful.

Thunder clashed and lightning lanced from the hidden sky as John McBride walked into the cottonwoods by the creek. He made no attempt to seek cover. Thad Harlan knew he was coming and he would wait.

The bodies of the bounty hunters and the Mexican boy had been cut down and only frayed strands of rope stirred in the wind. Rain fell in sheets and McBride’s boots squelched in mud. He stopped, his ears straining to hear above the clangor of the storm. Around him the night was a wall of darkness. He could see nothing except in those brief moments when lightning shimmered like white fire among the trees.